Seven Sins
by laulupidu
Summary: All of them are sinners. All of them are saints. Series of short, one-shot character studies. So far Irene/Teresa and Ophelia/Clare. Others planned.
1. Envy

**Seven Sins: Envy**

_Somehow, without a word, she knows exactly what you need._

_Whether she gives it to you is another matter entirely._

---

"Teresa, please." Your voice is deep, it vibrates in your chest like a purr, catches in your throat on a broken breath. You gasp, raggedly, and she leans down, whispers in your ear.

"Tell me."

She already knows, she just wants to make you say it. But you have your dignity, though the flush that crawls up from your breast to settle high on your cheeks has already begun to betray it. It is a delicious shame, this inability to hide your want from her. You close your eyes so she cannot see the hunger that lives there. Your fingers curl into the sheets pooled around your hips, and you grind your teeth together to keep the words locked in.

A long, slow lick up the column of your neck is the key.

Your eyes fly open and the sigh that escapes your lips is something like a sob, something like a prayer. You envy her this control she has over you, the way her mouth makes your body bend against your will to hers. The way you bend only for her, the way you break only for her, under her hands and her fierce eyes. She has always known exactly how to move you, exactly how to draw out the deepest desires you possess, to lay you bare before her.

Somehow, as her fingers drift across your collarbones, as her hands glide over your heated flesh to tease and torture, you don't mind.

She drops her head to your shoulder, moves to brush her lips against the smooth hollow of your throat, and you can feel that smile there, faintly, before she tests the sweat-salted skin with the tip of her tongue, swirls and slides it along the curves and dips of you in maddening patterns that possess you; you are branded, always hers.

You envy her this, too. The way her every word is panted out like fire on her tongue, and she smolders, dragon-breathed and smiling, how she glows golden even in the moonlight. The sun lives in her in a way that it has never lived in you, and it's that sun that holds you captive to her every whim. "Teresa..." you say, and her name sounds to you at that moment more sacred than all the statues in all the churches, as if the human goddess has descended to your bed, as if what she does to you is something holy.

"Tell me," she says again, and slinks, catlike, back up to press her lips to yours, and though it is surprisingly soft, the warmth of it sets your heart to burning. You raise your hands to thread your fingers through her hair, pull her roughly against your mouth to kiss that smile away.

"I love you," you say, finally, breath hitching with a sudden rush of feeling.

She smiles, not the tiny, mocking smile that named her, but one that's gentle like the dawn. She dips her head to your throat once more, and her mouth moves lower, agonizingly slow.

When you press your palms against her hair, gently guiding, she knows that she's won. But then, you think as she begins, so have you.


	2. Pride

**Seven Sins: Pride**

_She's easy for you to read, to bend, and break._

_But in the end, it's always you who gives in._

- - -

"Teresa, please." Her voice hangs in the air, delicious and desperate. It's almost an order, but you can hear the pleading notes she's not able to hide. You love nothing quite so much as the way she sounds when she's trying not to beg.

Her fingers are tangled in your hair, you can tell she's battling with her self-control from the way her grasping hands flex to the rhythm you've set with your teasing tongue. You breathe hotly on her inner thigh. Her back arches, limbs taut and trembling. You bite, gently, and she falls back, tightening her grip, losing the war with herself.

You smile against her skin and she pulls you roughly back up to whisper something in your ear.

"Now," she growls, and this time there's nothing but command in the way the words grind out from between her clenched teeth. You bend your head to her lips and kiss her hard, one hand at her neck, the other moving ever downward.

She is a river, frozen over, and you take such pleasure in the way only your fingers blaze paths enough to penetrate the cold of her, how her body betrays her only at your touch. You follow a rivulet of sweat with your mouth as you enter her, the taste nearly enough to drug you. You drink her in.

You can't help the pride that wells up in you on nights like these. The reactions you can wring from her with the slow drag of a fingertip along her neck, with the flutter of your lashes against her cheek, are like the waves of the ocean, lapping against the shore of you; they erode every last wound away. Somehow she heals all the damage done by time. It's the way her skin ripples at the insistent press of your palms against her breasts, it's the way she moves, the way she takes all that you can give. The way she gives her all in return.

Her body bends and bows, flows around your own like a sea of velvet, draws you as deep as you can go. She is all soft edges under your hands, as you are made all soft edges just by touching her. The world shrinks. All that's left is you, is her, is this bed and the way the moonlight that filters through the window turns her entirely to silver.

It's these moments you love the most, watching her face, unguarded, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and liquid with want, before they slam shut and all the breath she's been holding in rushes out, before her muscles seize and she trembles, chest heaving almost violently. There's nothing so beautiful in all the world.

Your smile is nearly savage as you begin to curl your fingers to watch it happen all over again.

She doesn't let you.

She rises, moves over you, nothing gentle in the demanding hands that hold you down, push your shoulders hard into the bed. You do not fight her. You've awakened the storm in her, that tempest that responds only to the torture you visit upon her, that she returns to you a hundred fold.

There is nothing for you to do but lie back and accept it when she kisses you, harshly, her breath cool over heated flesh.

"Stop smiling," she says.

You can't.


	3. Gluttony

Warnings on this one for non-con/dub-con, sadism, snake tail, and uh well, let's just say it's got a warning for Ophelia and be done with it.

**Seven Sins: Gluttony**

_You won because you broke the rules._

_She should have known you would._

- - -

"This is fun, isn't it?" You giggle, almost coquettishly, one deceptively delicate hand rising to cover your mouth, the other grabbing roughly at her breasts. She says nothing, only glares at you with those cold, angry eyes. But you know better, know she's here because you're the only one who makes her feel alive.

You coil your scaled body around hers tighter, dig your nails deep into her flesh, crescent moons of bright red welling up, spilling over to trickle down her chest. Your nostrils flare. The scent of her nearly drives you mad, wafting up like some tempting perfume, the promise of something sinfully divine. Your mouth waters, and the hunger sets in, sharp, stabbing. You are ravenous.

"I'm so glad you lost," you say, and your voice lowers from that girlish pitch to something dark and feral. You lean forward, head lowered, to lap at the blood weeping across her skin. You drag your tongue, slowly, over a taut nipple. She gasps. You look up, silver eyes flashing, and your smile is sharp and deadly like the edge of a knife. This is the most entertainment you've had in years.

She does not move as you suckle at her, teeth scraping against such sensitive places, does not make a sound beyond that first plaintive breath, but the frantic heaving of her chest, the rapid flutter of the pulse at her throat, give her away. You run your mouth along her neck to that alluring throb and bite down, hard. The blood is rich and metallic on your tongue, you think you will never have enough, that there is not enough in all the world to satisfy your longing. Her hands fly up to tangle in your hair, and she pulls, hard. The pain is almost as delicious as she is.

Bloody lips pressed against her ear, you laugh, and the sound is almost cruel. "You're glad, too." A tiny, desperate sound escapes from her throat. She claws at your back, and you curve into the sting, hissing with pleasure. She is such a warm little thing, so full of stuff that burns. But you've always known how to play with fire, and her flame is such a tiny one. A little flicker behind the eyes, a quick gnashing of teeth before it's pushed away again. You want to bring it out, to drink it in and gorge yourself on it, to explode with the fulfillment of all your deepest desires. There's never enough for that, no, but almost enough to drive back the craving for a moment. Almost enough to stop.

You don't want to stop.

She goes boneless, limp and bent at odd angles like a rag doll when you slide between her splayed legs, press the smooth ridges of your body into her, arms wrapped around her waist. Your eyes narrow and you pull her closer, slipping like silk along the wetness that betrays her. You stretch along the length of her, muscles contracting, and you watch the blush that creeps up her neck, follow it with your tongue to her lips. She tries to turn her head away, crimson blooming in her cheeks, but your hands are there faster, holding it still, forcing it forward.

Her eyes go wide, for a fraction of a second they shine bright and gold with her defiance. Her body is stiff, hands clamped at her sides, mouth a grim-lined slash across her face. Her eyes close. She stays silent. You kiss her, almost sweetly, lips parted to let a pink tongue dart between them, tasting, testing. The hunger in you rages.

When she relaxes, when her body begins to move against your own, when the resistance has faded from her limbs, you press against her, harder, faster. Her breath comes in shudders and sobs, her hands lift to rest just above your hips, flexing rhythmically with your every movement. "Teresa," she whispers as you push into her.

"Ophelia," you whisper as she comes, and lick away the tear that rolls down her cheek.


End file.
